In the middle of the Sunday afternoon she sat down to write to Bill. The post went out at five. If she posted her letter then, he would get it by the second post on Monday morning. That would be all right. He mustn’t get it by the first post, because he was to see Gilbert Garnish at nine o’clock and he must be at his very best for that. She sat and looked at the paper for a long time. It had always been so easy to write to Bill, but it wasn’t easy now. She wrote:
“I can’t marry you, Bill. I’m going to marry Lucas Dale.”
She looked at the words, and it seemed to her that they were nonsense. Bill wouldn’t believe them. She would have to write something that would make him believe. She wrote again, adding word to word like a child writing from a copy:
“It doesn’t matter what you think about me, but you mustn’t let it spoil your work.”
She wrote her name, and folded the sheet quickly without reading it through. When she had addressed and stamped the envelope she walked down the street and posted it at Mrs. Gill’s general shop, which was also the post office. Then she came home and told Mrs. O’Hara that she had broken off her engagement. Aunt Milly had a great deal to say about it, and Susan had to listen.
“Of course, my dear, I wouldn’t interfere for the world. And no one could say he was any sort of a match for you, though his father being so much respected and such an old friend did make a difference, as I told poor James at the time. And no one can be fonder of Bill than I am, but if you don’t feel quite sure about marrying him, it is really much better to break it off—I have always said so. Because, after all, an engagement isn’t a marriage, and divorce is a thing we haven’t ever had in our family, and I hope we never shall. So don’t marry him on any account unless you feel perfectly sure of yourself, though I’d like to see you happy and in a home of your own.”
“I’m going to marry Mr. Dale,” said Susan, and went out of the room.
Lucas Dale left her alone. He rang up once to inquire about Cathy, and said,
“I’m writing to you. I won’t come and see you for a day or two. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?”
There was a faint relief in her voice as she said “Yes”.
She got his letter an hour later. He wrote:
“I will make everything as easy for you as I can. I know that I shall have all my courting to do after we are married. Please don’t be afraid of me. Please don’t think that I shall try and rush you. Once we are married you shall have all the time you want. I will go into Ledlington and make arrangements tomorrow morning. I won’t bother you till everything is settled. I thought perhaps Thursday—”
Susan felt a piercing stab. Bill had said Thursday—if Gilbert Garnish gave him the job. But she wasn’t marrying Bill on Thursday, she was marrying Lucas Dale. Something in her said “I can’t”. Something that was stronger than that said “I must”.
Chapter Twelve
Bill Carrick stopped the car which he had borrowed from Ted Walters and got out. There were no lights on this side of the Little House, and no Susan at the gate. It hit him, but he didn’t stop to think about it. He walked straight into the unlighted hall, where he stood and listened. There was no sound of any kind. He went through the dining-room to the kitchen and saw Susan standing there as white as paper. He shut the door behind him and stood against it. Neither of them spoke, until at last he said in the same rough tone which he had used over the telephone,
“What’s all this nonsense?”
Susan went back till she could lean against the dresser.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said in a desolate tone.
“I have come. And you’ve got to explain. On Wednesday when I was down here everything was all right—I was going to get Garnish’s job, and you were going to marry me. Now I’ve got the job, and you’re going to marry Dale. I suppose you don’t think that needs any explanation. I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. I’ve come here to get an explanation, and I’m not going away till I’ve got one. If you haven’t got a story ready, you’d better do some quick thinking.”
Bill had never spoken to her like that in his life before. They had disagreed and argued, they had quarrelled and made it up again, but he had never looked as if he hated her before, never used that rough, cold voice of sarcasm. It hurt unbelievably, but it steadied her. She said,
“It’s no use trying to explain. It was no use your coming down. We mustn’t see each other, we mustn’t talk. It’s no use—”
He left the door and came towards her.
“Look here, Susan, if you think you can come that sort of thing over me, you can’t! We’re engaged. If you want to break the engagement you can, but you must tell me why.” He dropped his hands on her shoulders and let them lie there heavy and strong. “Look at me!”
Susan looked at him. She did not know how wretched a look it was. The hands that held her tightened.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened? You’ve got to tell me.”
“Bill, it’s no use. Oh, Bill—please go!”
“What’s the good of saying things like that? There’s something behind this, and I’m going to know what it is. Are you going to look me in the face and say that you care for this fellow?”
She went on looking, but she did not speak.
“Come along—say it! You wouldn’t marry a man you didn’t care for. Don’t mind my feelings—they don’t matter to you any more. Go on—tell me you love him—a little—much—passionately—not at all! Which of them is it? Or shall I tell you that you don’t care a snap of your fingers about him? Susan, you don’t—you can’t!”
She put up her hands and took him by the wrists to push him away.
“Stop! It’s no good, Bill.”
“Then you’ve got to tell me why.”
She freed herself.
“I can’t tell you why—I can’t tell you anything. We’re not engaged any more. I can’t marry you—I’m going to marry him. That’s all there is to say.” Her colour had risen, her breath came quickly. There was a desperate sound in her voice.
Bill’s manner changed suddenly. The roughness went out of it. He said,
“Look here, Susan, this is no good. You were all right on Wednesday. Something has happened since then, and you’re going to tell me what it is. If you’ve fallen out of love with me you’ve only got to say so. If you’ve fallen in love with him you’ve only got to tell me. But if you love me and I love you, do you suppose for a moment that anything you say or do is going to make me stand on one side whilst you marry him? I don’t know what’s happened, but you’re not using your brain. Get on and use it. You’re no fool, but you’re behaving like the village idiot. Drop it, and tell me what’s been happening.”
Susan leaned back against the dresser.
“It won’t do any good.”
“It won’t do any harm.”
“I don’t know—it might. There’s Cathy—”
His face changed.
“Oh, Cathy’s in it, is she? How?”
“He said—she took—his pearls—”
“What?”
Susan looked at him in a lost sort of way.
“He said so.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He had them out on Wednesday. The Veres were there, and the Micklehams, and Lydia. Cathy brought the pearls.”
“What?”
“The pearls—from his safe—in a tray. They are worth a lot of money. There were some loose ones. Everyone said wasn’t he afraid to keep them in the house, and he said no, he liked to have them there, even though sometimes he didn’t look at them for months. Lydia and I got up to go. He gave Cathy his keys and told her to put the pearls away. Lydia said he had better count them—” Her voice went down into a whisper and stopped.
“Go on.”
“On Saturday morning he rang up and said there was something wrong. I went up. Cathy was there—you know how she is when she’s frightened. He said she had taken some of the pearls—twenty loose on
es and a string of twenty-five that he had got to lengthen one of the other necklaces. He said if she would give them back he wouldn’t prosecute. She was all to bits. He said would I look for the pearls. I turned out Cathy’s bag—and they were in the lining. Cathy fainted.”
“Susan!”
It was an extraordinary relief to speak—to tell Bill. She went on telling him.
“He said it was a very bad case. He said anyone else in the house might have been suspected. He said he must ring up the police. I told him Cathy would die. He said it was his duty, but—”
“Go on,” said Bill.
She looked away.
“He said he wouldn’t prosecute his wife’s cousin—”
There was a pause. Susan felt herself gripped and held.
“Look at me!”
She looked, and saw a stranger. Bill would look like this in thirty years time perhaps—features sharpened, lines bitten in, youth gone. It frightened her, and the hard anger in his eyes set her heart beating.
“Blackmail! And you knuckled down to it!”
She said, “Cathy—the police—I couldn’t let him. That time the tramp frightened her your father said it was touch and go. She’s upstairs now, just lying there. She hasn’t spoken. It would have killed her.”
“If she did it she’s better dead,” said Bill Carrick.
Susan cried out.
“She didn’t—she couldn’t!”
“Then who did? Dale—Dale himself? Had he made love to you—before this happened?”
“Yes—he asked me to marry him—on Thursday.”
“And you said?”
Susan’s head came up.
“What do you think?”
“And then Cathy takes the pearls and they are found in her bag. That’s damned convenient! And you walked right into the trap!”
“What could I do? I couldn’t kill Cathy.”
“You could have called his bluff. It was bluff all right. You don’t imagine he would really have rung up the police, do you?”
“Oh, he would.”
“He wouldn’t. If he thought he’d a hold on you he wouldn’t have been in a hurry to give it up. You’ve been a damned fool!” He caught her suddenly in a hard clasp. “You can imagine a lot, can’t you? All right, imagine that I’ll let you go to that swine! Go on—try hard! Oh, Susan, you fool—you fool! You blasted darling fool!”
Just for a moment Susan let herself go. The frightful strain and tension eased. She had a flashing sense of relief. Right in the midst of unimaginable darkness, thirst, and terror there was light—spring water—comfort. The moment came and went, the flash died, the comfort was gone. She lifted her head.
“Bill—I’ve promised—”
“You can’t keep that sort of promise.”
“He said, ‘Is that your word of honour?’—and I said ‘Yes’.”
Bill let go of her. She thought, “He’s letting me go.” And then she saw his face set in hard, obstinate lines. His eyes, angry and determined, held hers.
“Suppose you promised to murder someone—would you do it?”
“I shouldn’t promise.”
“That’s shuffling!” His voice was contemptuous. “Suppose you were my wife—what would you have said then? Would you have let him blackmail you into going to him?”
“Bill!”
“What’s the good of saying ‘Bill!’? And where’s the difference? Would anyone say or think that a promise like that ought to be kept?”
She said in a fainting voice, “We’re—not—married,” and saw him whiten.
“And that’s all the tie you recognize—a legal tie, a physical one? Nothing else—nothing sacred and binding between us? Are you going to look at me and say that—and are you going to expect me to believe it if you do?”
“Bill!”
He came quite close, but he did not touch her.
“Wake up! You’re going to marry me. If Dale or anyone else tries to butt in he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
Behind him the door into the dining-room moved. The faint click of the latch had passed unheard. Mrs. Mickleham stood with her hand on the knob in a state of worried indecision. The Vicar had sent her—but on the other hand—a private conversation—Bill Carrick—naturally very upset—oh dear, dear, dear—really no attempt to keep his voice down—anyone in the house might have heard him—and oh, really, he ought not to go up to King’s Bourne in such a state—very natural of course, but most unwise, and sure to lead to a really terrible quarrel—oh, yes—and Susan trying to stop him and keeping on saying she had promised—
Inside the room Bill Carrick said with frightful distinctness,
“Do you want me to kill him, Susan? I think I’m going to.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Mickleham pushed the door wide open and stepped over the threshold. She saw Susan holding Bill Carrick by the arm, and she saw Bill turn his head and look at her standing there in the doorway. He was quite white, and his eyes blazed. As soon as he saw her he twisted himself free and rushed out through the scullery, slamming the door behind him. Susan went back against the dresser and stood there shaking. She stared at Mrs. Mickleham, but she didn’t seem to see her.
“My dear—my dear Susan—the Vicar sent me—but oh dear, I feel I am intruding—only we were both so distressed—indeed he did not feel that he could perform the ceremony—unless he felt assured that it was going to be for your happiness, my dear—he had to go to Mrs. Brain, and he thought perhaps you could talk more freely to me—”
Susan went on staring. Mrs. Mickleham’s voice was a long way off.… she was talking about someone being married.… It came to her that Mrs. Mickleham was talking about the marriage of Susan Lenox and Lucas Dale—and the Vicar was distressed—the Vicar—Lucas Dale.… Sharp and clear on that the voice in which Bill had said, “Do you want me to kill him? I think I’m going to.” And she had let him go.
She put out her hands as if she was pushing something away and went running through the scullery and out of the back door as Bill had done.
Mrs. Mickleham was left in a state of considerable agitation. If one could only be sure that one had done the right thing—one tried, but oh dear—and the Vicar had wanted her to come—a woman’s intuition—and of course if old Mrs. Brain was really dying, he had to go to her—oh dear!
She went slowly back into the hall. The drawing-room door was ajar and she could see that the room was in darkness. Mrs. O’Hara must be in her room. There was a light on the upper landing. She did not know whether to go up or not. She listened, and could not hear anyone moving. A lorry went by in the road. The Little House must be very noisy—only of course there wasn’t much traffic—Mrs. O’Hara didn’t seem to mind—poor thing, such an invalid—perhaps she was resting—better not disturb her—better just slip away. … Mrs. Mickleham slipped away.
Susan went running and stumbling up the hill. She was so terrified and confused that she hardly knew what she was doing. She only knew that Bill was beside himself with anger, and that she had let him go to meet Lucas Dale. It was quite dark in the orchard, but even in her confusion her feet found their own way and brought her out from among the trees. There was low cloud overhead, very little light from the sky, damp air on her face.
She was just beyond the trees, when she heard a shot. It did not frighten her at first. When you have lived in the country all your life the sound of a stray shot is neither here nor there. She heard it, but her mind had its own fear, the fear of Bill’s hands—his very strong hands. She saw them striking Dale, flinging him down, closing about his throat. The shot meant nothing to her at all.
She came to the paved terrace, as she had come to it on the Saturday morning when Lucas Dale had let her in. There was a light in the study, and as she saw that, she saw the curtain move, and the door. Bill Carrick passed the lighted space and came out upon the terrace. She ran to him.
“Bill!”
He caught her arm.
“What are
you doing here? Come away!”
“Bill!”
“He’s dead.”
Susan heard the words as she had heard the shot. They began to draw together in her mind. They didn’t mean anything yet.
Bill had his arm round her, hurrying her down the steps, across the lower terrace, down the slope—down, down, and on amongst the trees. They came to the garden of the Little House, to the back door, to the dark scullery, and there stood. Bill said in a sharp whisper,
“Is she gone—Mrs. Mickleham?”
She said, “I’ll see.”
She went through the lower rooms. She listened in the hall. There was no sound at all. She came back across the dining-room, shutting both the doors behind her.
Bill Carrick was standing by the kitchen window. He turned, and the light fell on his face. Until that moment Susan had not thought—there had been no time to think. She had heard Bill say “He’s dead.” The words were there in her mind, but she hadn’t begun to think about them. What she had had to do was to run, to get back into the shelter of the Little House, to make sure that Mrs. Mickleham was gone. Now these things were done.
She looked at Bill, saw something in his face which she had never seen there before, and with a dreadful rush thought began. Lucas Dale was dead. She remembered the shot, and her knees began to shake. She took hold of the edge of the kitchen table and leaned on it. Bill said,
“He’s dead.” And then, “I didn’t kill him.”
She said, “Who killed him?”
“I don’t know. He was lying there dead.”
Susan thought about that vaguely. She was shaking so much that she was afraid she was going to fall. She said,
“You came out of the study—”
“Yes—I found the glass door open. Don’t you believe me?”
What were they saying to one another? What was between them? What had he done?
He leaned across the table and spoke low.
“I wanted to kill him—I might have killed him—but I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I’ll try.”
That was all wrong—dreadfully wrong. You believe, or you don’t believe—it’s no good trying. Her lips were quite dry. She moistened them and said,
Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 7